


An Indistinct Mark

by tea_cat



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Bottom Akechi Goro, Bottom Kurusu Akira, Casual Sex, Gun Kink, Horny Teenagers, Kinky, M/M, Murder, Murder Kink, Possible Character Death, Spoilers, Top Akechi Goro, Top Kurusu Akira, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:07:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26721883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_cat/pseuds/tea_cat
Summary: Akira is gone - further than gone. He's spent too many late nights with Akechi, and they all start, end, the same:
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	An Indistinct Mark

**Author's Note:**

> really havent written anything like this omg i hope u like it!!! plssss tell me if something is like - totally off. i think most of it's just ~~~~ enough like vague(?) that uh idk where i was going w that
> 
> anyways ! yes i would like to explore akira and many unhealthy kinks i hope thats ok  
> ah i also kinda tried formatting it? like the italics and stuff - tell me if that worked yikes
> 
> (tell me if i should add to the tags! - ive never written anything like this, again, so i wasnt quite sure what i should put)

_a hand drops to his thigh, pres_ _sing hard enough to bruise in a distinct pattern - yet akira can’t tell what it means. if he’s truly graced with a gift from the gods, then it doesn’t have to mean anything. akechi doesn’t seem to understand what he’s doing to him, pinning him against the mattress and fucking him roughly until the realisation that they’ll be standing on opposite sides of the same gun hit them, as their eyes roll back and their frantic movements still. he’s always gone when he wakes._

Akira’s eyes followed as Akechi’s gloved hands placed the mug down on the counter slowly, carefully, with his pinkies extending below the cup to hollow the sound. As his gaze lifts back up, up his throat, they meet eyes.

“Thank you for the coffee, Kurusu,” it’s barely a whisper, carrying through the steam of the drink. “I really must be going, though, the last trains should be coming through the station soon.” He says it with such finality, as if he, too, understands that this is his last visit. It’s November, the cold is only beginning to hit.

“Are you sure?” It’s still raining; the detective having to walk in the rain worries him. “You could always stay the night.” They both know he can’t, know how the last time he slept on the couch in the attic turned out. With hardly there self control, it was a mild surprise they were even able to pretend it was something else in the beginning. What started as a simple kind gesture slowly morphed into a dominance battle, of who caves first.

His eyes, a shade of rust, narrow, disconnecting from Akira’s. “Quite sure.” He looks to the floor. “But, I suppose I can stay, to clean up.” Akechi places a hand on the counter, a fingertip away from the other. If he only moved an inch, they’d be touching. He doesn’t know if he could live with that. Presumably, he doesn’t have too much longer, as the end of November weighs on his shoulders.

He grabs the two mugs, stil half-full of bitter they weren’t going to finish. Once Akechi left, and he’d be alone, maybe he’d make another cup for himself. It always tasted better when he made it, eyes blurring and lips quivering; he didn’t cry often, but it was enough to know: Life was scary, but he liked the routine of it, waking up to the spice of curry, locking up each night because Sojiro trusted him now, and staying up late talking to the one person he doesn’t have to please, until the last trains blow into Yongen-Jaya. The hardest part was always hearing the sound on the tracks, moving away again.

“Thanks for helping.” He means it, he really does. Akechi pushed the booths back together, from the disorder the previous meeting had left, he swept the kitchen floor even though Akira insisted he didn’t, grabbing onto the handle gently, breathing against his neck. Akechi had pulled away, blinked slowly, and swept the dirt and crumbs and dust into a pile. His cock stirs within its confines as the other boy leaned to pick up the dustpan.

He’s not awarded a response, dignified. The chime above the door floods his ears, as well as the soft patter of raindrops on the outside pavement. It closes again, and he’s left with a clean cafe and a whistling in his ears. How does Akechi let himself get so close? How does he force himself to pull away?

_his fingers slide down, down, down a slim waist to angled hips. he’s moving too fast, rushing through the motions he had worked too long the hours previous to achieve - rarely did his hands find refuge within, atop, the scarred skin seated on his lap, the only thing for him to look at in the moment. even with how rough he’s going, skipping through the surely necessary emulations, akechi is biting akira’s ear, his heated breath reflecting in a scale from the top of his jaw to his mid-throat, matching the movement of his hands on those jutting hips. the scarred skin hits his own, muscle against muscle, bone against bone, and he brings him down once more. akechi whines against the new position, hair sprawled over the pillow in a halo._

Akira sighs, sliding down the space between the bar stools, still warm from their heat. It was much too dark outside, the stars too dim and weak, to be able to watch the detective walk down the alley, but he knew he was there, somewhere. Even though he knew he would never be next to him again, on these barstools, he yearned to be able to. It was quiet without him, the air slightly less heavy, but it still bruised where it fell onto them.

He was absolutely positive Akechi was on his train now, thinking about work and Niijima’s palace and of his plans for betrayal - anything and everything besides what Akira was thinking about in this moment, seated under the counter. It was unlikely Akechi even still remembered what they had talked about over coffee, much less each of Akira’s movements, each shift of his eyes, every twitch of his thigh over the other, every time he stuck his tongue out to wet his lower lip.

Shifting, he sits down onto his heels. He can’t let himself get worked up over Akechi, especially after he just left. He had been fortuitous enough to be granted almost a full evening with the detective, but apparently it wasn’t enough for his body. It wanted to feel Akechi, not just greed after him while he sat as close as possible without a touch.

Groaning, he moves his hand down to his thigh. Immediately, a shudder runs down his spine. Even without him here, he’s affecting him in more ways than he knows. An intellectual partner, for the most part, but also a stimulant, the pulse of blood beating through his veins. Without the incitement Akechi provided, Akira wouldn’t be here right now, combating the overwhelming urge to stroke the hardness in his pants.

He needed a distraction; masterbating on the floor of LeBlanc was the pinnacle of debauchery, and he wasn’t ready to give up the majority of his remaining dignity. His usual go - to distraction was the detective, but for obvious reasons that wouldn’t work in this case. Just thinking about the next Phantom Thief mission, even, thinned his breath - he was quite literally panting now - all because Akechi had joined them this time, leaning against the counter while they sat in the booth. His hips had been angled, ever so slightly. Akira had barely been able to keep his eyes focused on anything else except the curve of his thigh, the trumming of his nails against the granite surface.

His hand stills at the waistband of his jeans. He glances up towards the stairs. Moving to his attic room wouldn’t take long, wouldn’t take much effort, logically it was well worth it. But he finds his fingers pulling his belt out of the loops in the next ten seconds. His hips are stuttering, away from the tile flooring, chasing any sort of friction. With the hand peeling away his jeans, off down his thighs, he can feel the slight jolt of his thumb against his clothed cock - it’s not enough, of course.

What he really needs is Akechi, here, with his nimble fingers and narrow hips, pushing him into the floor. Some days he feels like that’s the only thing that’d be enough, that’d scratch the itch of desire burning low in his gut. Only the detective’s touch could douse the heat burning throughout his entire being at the moment, after every moment they spend together. The need gleaming over his body, right now, only able to be sated - barely - by the thought of Akechi, with a fervor prevalent only in his mind’s images of him. In the metaverse, the ardor radiating out of the other’s blood lusted eyes was easy to spot, hard to miss. Akira couldn’t keep his gaze from wandering towards the other, during the times of high conflict, where the detective’s excitement from the battle was very much evident.

He’s long past finding a distraction, to keep himself from touching himself on the floor of his guardian’s cafe. With his own fingers spilling over the seam of his boxers, his head tips back, throat exposed to the height of the counter above him; a breathy sound escapes, passing his teeth. The sensation of his nail, scraping his hip bone, and the cool of the floor against the back of his thigh as he pushed his clothes down more, makes him hiss.

_akechi is distinctly too warm above him, hair shielding his eyes from the outside world, now only visible to akira. the room, swarming with tiny dust particles kicked up in their haste to the bed, to lock an ankle behind a pair of hips, to grab hold of a tensed neck, to bite a tongue, to taste the blood._

A street light outside in the alley flickers, and his hand stills for a moment out of paranoia. For a second, he allows his breath to calm, looping a finger through the closest loop of his pants. What was he doing? Caving in on the cafe floor, eyes glazed to the yellow lights, stomach spinning in time with the buzzing in his head. He shouldn’t be doing this; he shouldn’t be doing any of this. If Morgana had been here - which luckily he wasn’t, spending the night with Futaba instead - he might’ve been able to collect his lust, store it for later. Perhaps after Akechi murders him, he could indulge in the little fantasies and touches he yearned for the detective to understand, to initiate.

He should get up. As his face flushes at the realisation of what he was about to do, he quickly pulls his pants up, steadying his hands on the counter a moment later. They had just drank coffee together, here, him and Akechi Goro. Like friends, or more - so teammates, nothing like the rivals they were supposed to be. Betting, with a snort, that from the outside, one wouldn’t have the slightest clue that one of the boys was meant to die by the other’s hands. He only wishes to be so ignorant.

His breath is almost to normal, tiny shudders rolling down his spine as his arousal refuses to desert his veins, when he notices the slightest shine of the light fixture off of an object placed on a chair to the right of him. Did one of the customers leave something?

He braces his side against the surface, leaning over the arm of the high chair. The handle of the item loops into his fist. It’s still a little warm, as if the owner had been gripping it tight for hours upon hours before accidentally leaving it at LeBlanc. Immediately as his eyes adjust to the change of light from this height - his full sight uncovered by the table above - a jolt runs from his palm to his shoulder. It was Akechi’s briefcase; Akechi had left his work briefcase in the cafe, in the seat next to him.

Should he leave it alone? Surely by now the train had long since left - there was absolutely no way Akira could catch up to the older boy, especially not in his half - hazed state. For starters, he should focus on getting upstairs, asleep. The case could come up with him, since he didn’t have to wake up earlier tomorrow and he wouldn’t want to simply leave it for Sojiro to find, to have to deal with. It’s much heavier than he had expected, swinging with his arm to his hip in a heartbeat. Akechi had to lug this around all day? It was a wonder he had forgotten it; the absence of the great weight must be akin to losing a limb, or forgetting that you had gotten several inches of your hair cut.

Even still, it was a comfortable weight, a comfortable presence in his hand. Knowing that Akechi had held this, possibly with a sweaty hand as he stood on the train, in the middle of a crowd of people - swaying, pushing against warm bodies, holding his briefcase as close to his chest as he could. Imagining that, in this moment, Akira was placing the pads of his fingertips directly where Akechi would, while talking to Akira, while plotting to kill him - secretly, maybe even as they spoke.

A shiver runs violently down his spine at the thought. Of the detective, pleasant and of no threat to the general eye, planning through directives detailing the murder of the one closest to him. The only boy that mattered, he had told him once in a midnight drunken mist of interlocking bodies and rushed expressions, murdered by the hands of the only boy that had ever looked through his mask, seen his true eyes, and decidedly ripped it off of his skin, out of his heart. The thought of Akechi thinking through the scenario, the exact moment, over and over in his head as he waited in LeBlanc for Akira to arrive, of him practicing how he was going to hold the gun that ended the delinquent's life, was almost too much to bear.

Should he risk opening the briefcase? He had no idea what could possibly be in there besides police paperwork and the extra set of leather gloves he knows the older boy carries around. Although… his train of thought from earlier bounces back into the forefront of his mind - gloves, especially Akechi’s gloves, could very well be that touch of the other boy he so desperately needed. It wouldn’t be that strange, right? Akechi would never know, he supposes, if he were to clean the gloves after, before returning the case back to him.

Without a second breath to think it over, he throws the briefcase onto the middle booth, and stares at the lock. He had expected at least a code lock, or an advanced key lock - at the very minimum. The metal slot stares up at him innocently; it was only a simple bolt, one that he could easily bypass with a sturdy lockpick - he has several of those on his desk upstairs. It gives him a good reason to move into the attic, even though he shouldn’t have really needed any other incentive besides earlier. He takes the case with him, hugged to his chest with both arms.

His strides are clumsy, footing unstable on the already rickety wooden stairs. Still, the object stays in his hands, untouched by his carelessness, in his rush to his working desk. If he remembered correctly, he had a few lockpicks premade, for the Casino - Morgana always got onto him about being prepared. Surely, he never imagined Akira would be using the Thieve’s materials for this.

A second later, the case is placed gently on his bed, a metal stick placed into the teeth of the lock. It’s easily not even the hardest of the locks he has picked in the last year. For a detective such as Akechi to be carrying this around, he must be awfully sure that it would never land in a position where it could possibly even be broken into. He pauses for a moment, when he can hear the click sound within. It’s a little too late, he’s a little too far gone, now, to pretend to rethink the decisions he had made leading up to right now.

_he smelled of dusted petals, he thinks, in a moment like this. although he wasn’t quite sure what that exactly was, it made him want to swallow the other up - grabbing soft handfuls, hearing the stifled sounds of shock and pleasure, wrapping his tongue around the heated flesh of a cock, pulsing through the steady grip of his fingers. the smell intensifies, as the taste fills his mouth, his senses overworking through the haze; a hand, not his own, lands - burrows - into his hair, pulling him down further, pushing more of the taste down his throat._

If he went through this correctly - he thinks as he pries the top of the case open - then no one would ever know, or ever need to know. Akechi himself, the great detective he is, couldn’t be eluded for too long, logically, but hopefully by the time he finds out it’s too late. Akira will be dead soon, anyways, and maybe the only thing Akechi remembers of him is him using the extra leather gloves he carries around in a way leather gloves definitely should not be used. He almost swallows his tongue in his desperation; would it be entirely bad if the older boy found out? It’s a heated question, boiling in the forefront of his mind, while he pulls the black gloves off the top of a stack of papers and a gleam of metal. It caught the grey of his eye, and it had cooled the side of the glove that had been laying on top of it. A moan hitches high in his throat - apparently he still wasn’t of a completely sound mind.

No way. There was absolutely no way-

It was Akechi’s gun, shining softly with the light swinging above from the ceiling. The gun to kill Akira, that had killed many before him - likely dozens. It’s a little less personal than Akira had hoped: to be killed with a machine-made weapon that had been pressed into the forehead of many others a victim, but at least it was to be held by his detective. And, still, his heart jumps in his chest at the thought of looking up the barrel of the pistol, seeing the murderous glee on his rival’s face. He could hardly believe it - a simple lock to hold a loaded gun?

It could be supposed as luck, in a wicked mind - such as the one currently controlling Akira’s fingers, gripping onto the weapon. There was a lot he could do with a thing like this, all of them things no one he knew would approve of. Because, surely, even Akechi wouldn’t agree with his target using his gun to kill themselves before he could complete his mission correctly. Any of his other ideas, ideas that midnight Akechi might agree with, but only after a few cups of a liquid that was distinctly not coffee and several tugs at his hair; tongue; clothes -

_the skin of the detective’s collarbones is distinctly shaded under akira’s teeth, the vibration of a low sound echoes through to the back of his skull. connected like this, akechi on his thighs, with the delinquent arching his back to feel more of the other’s surface upon him. his head is buzzing - from the burn of a recent bite on the crook of his neck, from the stench of sex filling the air, from the light and breathy obscene moans being called straight into his ear._

The gun, somehow, sits against his chin now, pressing into the soft tissue under his jaw. His other hand runs back to his cock, that never quite went to sleep. Stilted breaths, jolting movements - Akechi's hand had wrapped around this metal, had squeezed the trigger between his fingers; Akira's hand's now wrapped around the metal, is squeezing his other hand, gloved, between his thighs. Imagine the sweat that must have stuck to this glove, and Akira pushes his head into the bed, his elbow twists awkwardly against the sheets to keep the gun steady to his throat, to keep a leather-covered finger pressing against the head of his cock. 

With the new angle, he's able to slide his face down the pillow slightly, to wrap his reddened lips around the muzzle. The taste is nothing like the sweat and Akechi’s desperation; instead: the anger of a burning bullet, the long faded frantic pleading of the past acquaintances of the hitman and the traces of fear drenching their words, salt from overuse, from a recent cleaning. Metal bumps a tooth to the side of his mouth, his eyes pinch shut at the resulting tremor. It doesn’t fit in his mouth at all; his jaw strains at the tension needed to keep his tongue from being crushed under the gun. 

He gives an experimental lick, straight to the front of the pistol, a shudder spawning in his shoulder blades. The leather coated hand clutches the base of his dick as he gaps, knees digging into the mattress. The feeling of the gun, now hitting the back of his tongue - as far back as it can go until the magazine is at the juxt of his lips - erupts deep within his stomach;

_he’s begging for akechi to slow, grabbing at his hips with sweaty, shaky hands. akira can’t breathe, not with the sharp thrusting cutting into his throat, nor the gloved fingers pinching his nose closed. everything’s blurred, with his unclear vision - the flat plane of skin in front of his face blocks the rest of his sight; he can’t see anything except akechi, akechi, akechi._

In real time, he sees his hand - not feels it, doesn’t command it - he sees his hand move the gun into the other, letting go off his cock to bounce onto his navel; a squelch of protest as the liquid gathered at the tip drips down onto the gun, the blanket below. A bit of saliva falls off the metal, to join the precum, collected. There’s no way it was slick enough for what his body seemed to be planning without his knowledge - wasn’t that part of the appeal, though? Pain was inevitable when the gun he was holding was to be used for real, blood too, so why attempt to avoid it now?

He reaches his fingers behind him, between his knees, as a test. No, he was going to need something more than a thin coat of spit. Nudging one foot off of the bed, to root around underneath the frame, knowing that was where he had tossed the tub last time. He was sure he had some still, despite not having used it a week or so. Akechi rarely came over to LeBlanc, not anymore, not since it had become apparent that they were both tense about something - related to the other - that couldn’t be solved with just a little bit of rough touches, fractured words, rushed emotion. It was quite a surprise that he had stayed past the ending of the Thief meeting, sitting at his usual spot on the counter, acting the part of a customer - working on some paperwork - while Akira finished his shift.

Having the detective right in front of him, not being able to touch him, but not being sure that he had wanted Akira to touch him, had been sore, torture. Niijima’s defeat was days away, which brought the leader down right alongside her, yet Akechi showed barely any sign of needing one last night, one last time to remember the only boy that ever truly mattered, the only boy that he had ever laid with. Secretly, Akira prays that he never lays with another - boy or girl. Even in his coming death, he wants to insure that he was the only one ever to touch the other, to taint him, to paint his skin. 

The tub slides across the uneven wooden slates about as great as Akira leans down - with the gloved hand - to pick it up. He almost falls off the mattress, meaning. Pins the gun under the base of his cock, as he comes back up, lube in hand. A hearty moan passes his lips with a roll of his eyes; his thighs squeeze together, chasing the friction, the pressure, of Akechi’s weapon pressing his arousal to his hip. 

Moving to sit on his knees, with his fingers already in the tub, he sets the gun down on the pillow just for this moment. The absence of that weight, lost, makes him shutter. To fuck himself on the gun he was going to require much more preparation and patience than he’s ever shown during sex before, and he wasn’t sure his lust was going to allow for that. -Wasn’t there any way he could skip a few steps? Surely it wouldn’t damage him _too_ badly, poorly. - Yet, even still, he proceeds to adjust his footing, to move his hand, slick with copious amounts of the lube, into the juxt of his legs. 

_akechi was a vicious lover, tearing pieces of akira up until he could barely recognise his own person anymore. It was a wonder his friends were able to see him like this, right after they - as rivals, lovers, victims? - had rutted against each other on the old mattress in the attic, like they had no other days left, no time for real love. akechi had grabbed akira by the hair, thrown him to the floor, shoved himself so far down in the other’s lap that he was sure there’d be an imprint, a mark, for him to see the next time he took a trip over to the bathhouse._

It’s finished rather quickly, quicker than it should’ve, Akira supposes. Preparation was never his favourite; he wanted to get to the good part, amplify the fear of the gun, heat of gloves - they fed off his body, as Akechi did in the depths of the night, when they were pinned together, feeding off their strengths. He felt incredibly, increasingly, weak as this goes on: Akechi knew exactly what spots to press into, to bite, to get the most energy out of Akira.

There’s a pressure as he inserts a third, gloved, finger inside him. He wants to feel like he’s splitting open - but he had to be able to _fit_ the gun, unfortunately. A great deal of certainty comes with his next throat ripping groan, throwing his chest out to the ceiling. The burning, ache, it’s almost more than he could voice; desire he wasn’t sure he could quench, drown in sex, on his own. _His_ detective was always sure to leave a gap in Akira’s cognition of him. A slight that left the boy wondering of Akechi’s true care, character, accessories - questions he’d never acquire a true answer to, spoke in the back of his mind, past the haze of lust and laze, asking him if -

A keening sound bursts through his lips, the gun covered in the slick liquid and now entering him. Immediately, he moves it as fast as he possibly can, with his ass tightening around the murderous object with each hard, shallow thrust. Numbly, he reaches a leather hand down to rub against the slit of his cock, leaking pleasure in thick rivers. It doesn’t feel like anything he’s ever fucked himself on, alone or not - the metal left his walls cold, while each thrust; although they were short to avoid the small sight on the top; curled his insides, feeling much deeper than any rendezvous with Akechi, flesh, had. He knew that wasn’t true, obviously, but the gun wasn’t any longer a gun inside of him so much as a knife, twisting, pulling at the biggest chamber of his heart. The heat building in his gut, with each hit of the muzzle against a sensitive bud of nerves, ready to release.

_ he wasn’t sure when he had grown so dependent on akechi, long limbs and long hair and long tale of tragic happenings - but it was uncontrollable now, of all his thoughts and his movements and his behaviors. the was all he was, now, being there for him to burrow his thick cock into, there for him to dig his teeth into, to shove a knife into, shoot a bullet - _

His hand is stilting, hips jerking, dick tightening and stirring - wet and throbbing. The gun moves slower as the glove strokes faster, drool bubbling down his chin onto the pillow. It fills him so, so much more than he normally could by himself, the gun. How would Akechi react - he thinks absentmindedly - to seeing Akira debauched, spilling over his own stomach, thighs, hands, tossing his head back like a whore? Admittedly, he knows of two answers: one, of his own imagination, where Akechi would take the gun from his hands, from inside him, and fuck into him harder than he could with it by himself; or the second answer, more honest and true, the detective would leave, turned on or not, and Akira likely wouldn’t see him again until he came to complete his task, in murdering the Thief’s leader. 

There was another that he was drawing up now, as he climaxes - eyes rolling back, stomach convulsing, cock spasming between his leathered fingers - where Akechi would kill him, right then and there. Grabbing the gun in his own hands, coated in lube and cum and possible blood - depending on how rapidly, how desperately Akechi tore it away - aiming it at Akira’s head, blowing it off. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to look away, limp body covered in various fluids, limp body incapable of self defense. 

In the delinquent's sexed state, he’s sure he would let him, no matter if he were dead or alive. 

(He supposes something must be wrong with him, very wrong. For him to fantasise of his becoming death, of the boy to kill him - something must be wrong. To him, it was a cope; if he was to die soon, he might as well find the slightest bit of enjoyment in it, yes? Even if he had to die, lustful yet sexless, he might as well appeal to the arousal of it all. Akechi was an attractive spirit, and Akira was extremely drawn to him. The strength of his mind, though he turned to insanity at the hardship of his life. But who was he to judge the other’s coping?)

**Author's Note:**

> coincidence that i finished this the first of october - i dont think ill be doing kinktober lol i dont have that kind of time :(
> 
> [tell me if this is awful lolol ill orphan it immediately - but tell me if its any good too!!! id love feedback <3]


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